


Florida has Crocodiles, California has Disneyland, but Maine has You

by zagenta



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Dirty Jokes, Drive-In, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Pre-Relationship, post ch 1, teen losers, teenagers who don't do their research
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25026163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zagenta/pseuds/zagenta
Summary: "Do you have any idea how strong a crocodile's jaw is?" asks Eddie."Do you?" asks Richie.Eddie glares at Richie. "They literally clamp down on you and don't let go. A crocodile will drag you into the water and hold you under until you drown! That's how they get you! Their jaws are like iron, Rich.""Oh, Iron Jaw, new name for a band—called it!" says Richie, reaching all the way over to get a high five from Stan. Stan grabs him by the wrist and puts his hand down."Eddie, I think you're thinking of alligators," says Ben.Mike rolls his eyes. "You know what? Crocodiles or alligators, I'll take my chances.""Whatever," says Richie. "Catch me sunbathing in Malibu while you get eaten by the crocodile from the black lagoon.""Both," corrects Stan softly, as if more to himself than anyone else. "For fuck's sake. Florida is known for both. The Everglades is the only place crocodiles and alligators co-exist." Mike bites his lip, fighting back laughter.—The Losers spend an evening at the drive-in watching Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey. Call it a drive-in triple date for kids who don't even know they're dating.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, background benverly - Relationship, background stanlonbrough - Relationship
Comments: 11
Kudos: 39





	Florida has Crocodiles, California has Disneyland, but Maine has You

Once Mike pulls the truck into a spot in the lot, and they can no longer hear the roar of the engine or physically feel the rumble of the truck beneath him, Richie exhales, finally able to relax his pained grip on the frame.

"I still think we could've snuck someone in under the blankets and the ticket guy wouldn't even have noticed!" quips Richie loudly, calling back to others sitting in the backseat. He looks to Bill who is sitting next to him and grins.

Beverly rolls her eyes, stepping out from the backseat and slamming the car door behind her. "Sure, Richie, say we did that. And where exactly would they go? There's no room."

"That's easy. Just squeeze 'em in between you and Ben!" says Richie, already unhitching the back to the truck so that the others can climb on up.

"We could probably make it work," muses Ben, who of course is right behind Beverly. When she shoots him an incredulous expression, he elaborates, "If you hug your legs, there's probably enough room down below—"

Richie beams at him, clapping his hands together. "That's the spirit! Tuck 'em up in there, underneath your legs. Eddie's small, I bet he could totally fit."

Bill snorts, taking the blanket that Beverly is holding out to him and standing up so that he can lay it out on the bed of the truck.

They hear the sound of a loud smack against the dirt, and the three Losers look back to see Eddie, crouched and swaying in a tangle of blankets like he didn't step out from the back of Mike's car so much as he seemed to fall. They watch him stand up straight and brush himself off.

"That's quite a fall," says Richie with a snicker. His expression softens. "You alright there, Eds?"

Eddie coughs, a product of the dust kickup. "Oh, fuck off, Rich," says Eddie, and Beverly giggles behind her hand at his disheveled hair and sour expression. "I tripped over the cooler, for your information. And I just want you to know, I heard your little idea, and I am _not_ doing that."

"Well, there's always next time—" Richie waggles his eyebrows, but Eddie is having none of it.

"Next time?" says Eddie. "It's cramped enough as is it back there, you want Beverly and Ben to rest their feet on me like I'm their own personal footstool?"

"The number of times you've sat on my legs long enough to make them fall asleep, and you're the one complaining about being a personal footstool?" says Richie, and just like that, the two of them are at it again.

But that doesn't stop Richie from holding out his hands to help Eddie climb into the truck, and their bickering definitely doesn't stop Eddie from taking Richie's hand in the first place. They're in a precarious position—Eddie dependent on Richie's arm to keep him steady. Judging by the expression on Richie's face (one of surprise and maybe a twinge of amusement), it's dawning on him as well the power he holds in this situation.

Eddie's eyes narrow. "You wouldn't dare." His arms are so tense from the straining, the two of them caught in the balance.

Richie smirks. "I'm feeling merciful."

Eddie scrambles up, scurrying to the very back as fast as he can and plopping himself down next to Richie, cross-legged. He's breathing heavily. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. What if I was underneath the blankets, and I got stuck underneath Bev's legs? You want me to suffocate to death?" he demands, staring directly at Richie. He pulls out his inhaler. Puff.

"Come on, Eddie, it's the Losers," says Beverly, trying to pacify him. "We've made tighter squeezes work." She says as she looks at the two of them sitting together like she knows something they don't.

She climbs on up with little effort, Ben right after her.

"Don't worry, Eddie, I would never use you as a footstool," says Ben, clapping him on the back as he sits down.

Eddie nods, still taking deep breaths. "Thanks, Ben."

Richie shakes his head and laughs in bewilderment. "Come on. You think I want you to suffocate under a pile of blankets and Beverly Marsh's legs while we're waiting in line to see... _Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey_?"

A small smile creeps onto Eddie's face. "No."

The corner of Richie's mouth tugs in a returning smile. "You don't have to hide under the blankets, Eds. I mean, we'd never get away with it. You can't shut up, it'd be a dead giveaway."

"Good, because I won't do it, even if you wanted me to," says Eddie with a smug little grin and a sing-song voice.

"It'd be a hell of a way to go," says Beverly, and she seems to be musing to herself more than she's paying attention to the two of them. "Cause of death: suffocation between Beverly Marsh's legs," she mutters with a smirk, pulling out a packet of cigarettes and putting one between her mouth. She giggles, flicking her lighter and holding it up to her cig.

Seeing the look on the others' faces, she stops. "What? We were all thinking it."

Richie puts a hand over his mouth, but a quiet snort escapes before can help hit. Grabbing his sides, he devolves into shaking with silent laughter.

Eddie turns red right up to his hairline, but he's saved by the sound of another car door slamming and Mike approaching from the driver's side, holding the cooler under his arm.

"Sorry about the tight space, guys," Mike says with an apologetic smile, more good-natured than any of them really deserved. He shoots a quizzical look to Richie, then Beverly, who was caught up in her own fit of silent giggles.

"Don't be s-s-sorry, Mike," says Bill. "It's not like any of us h-h-have—have a car, so—"

Mike offers the cooler out to Bill, who takes it with a nod and sets it down beside him.

"Where's Stanley?" asks Richie, looking around. He turns to Mike. "Wasn't he riding shotgun with you? Since no one in this family seems to respect the rule of dibs." He grumbles the last part under his breath, folding his arms all disgruntled.

"I'm here, Rich!" calls Stan, and the others turn to see him standing on the opposite side from Mike's—teeth chattering and his hugs his arms close to his body. "And 'the rule of dibs'? What are you, eight?"

"I'm not talking about _you_ ," says Richie, despite pointing an accusatory finger at him. "I'm talking about _Mike_ , for letting you body me out so that I have to sit in the back."

"Since when is it driver's job to enforce the rule of shotgun?" says Mike, but there's something sheepish about his expression that is not quite congruent. "Besides," he adds hastily, "you've been looking for an excuse to sit in the back of my truck for ages now."

"Touche, Hanlon," says Richie.

Eddie frowns. "That doesn't seem very safe to me."

"Well, if you were willing to sit on the floor, we'd have more space in the backseat, wouldn't we?" says Richie, and Eddie opens his mouth to respond but before he can, Stan turns to Mike and speaks, cutting him off.

"Help me up, will you?" he asks, and Mike intertwines his fingers together and holds it out to make a step for Stan, and with Beverly's help from the other end, Mike manages to give him enough of a boost to help the struggling boy into the truck.

Bill offers a hand to Mike, who takes it and with a grunt manages to climb up mostly on his own.

"Mike, are you s-s-sure you don't want gas money?" offers Bill. "I mean, after everything—"

"Don't be ridiculous," says Mike, sitting down and leaning back against the frame with a satisfied sigh.

"But—"

" _Bill_ ," says Mike, putting up his hands in a note of finality. "It's fine."

Bill furrows his brow, the way he always does when he's stubborn about something. "At least let us c-cover your ticket—" he starts, but Eddie cuts him off.

"Aw, come on, Bill!" says Eddie. "No offense, Mike, I get that Bill wants to be chivalrous and all, but my mom will get all suspicious if I blow all my money at once."

Bill grumbles something under his breath, too quiet for anyone to hear, and Stan visibly bites back a laugh.

"None taken," says Mike. "You're the whole reason my headlights still work."

Eddie beams, his knowledge of cars being a spot of pride for him. The fact that many people seemed to underestimate him in that regard made his handiwork even more satisfying.

"Besides," says Eddie, "I'm already covering for Richie, _again_ ," and he stares pointedly at Richie as he says this.

Richie shrugs sheepishly, as if to say, _guilty_. "I'm still waiting for my allowance."

Bev snorts. "You still get an allowance?"

"When I'm a good boy I do," he says with a shit-eating grin and a wink in her direction. Richie doesn't see it, but behind his back, Bev can see Eddie bite his lip and flush an even deeper shade of red than the last.

Stan rolls his eyes. "So that's never?"

Richie tweaks his nose, and initially, Stan swats his hand away, but when he hears Richie warble, "Oh ye of little faith!" in a melodramatic tone of voice, Stan stifles a laugh behind his hand.

"Come on, guys, it's the least we can do," says Ben, as usual, his soft-spoken interjection catching everyone by surprise.

Bev eyes him curiously and seems to be thinking it over a moment before she shrugs. "I'm cool with chipping in."

"Me too," says Stan.

"S-So it's settled!" says Bill, turning to challenge Mike.

"Listen," says Mike. "Cover for popcorn, and we'll call it even. Got it, Big Bill?"

Bill sighs. "Fine." He rummages through his pockets for change. "Does anybody w-want—want drinks?"

"Grab me a cherry coke and some gum, and I'll love you forever," says Beverly, forking over some bills and holding them out, but Richie snatches them up. "Richie!"

"I got it," he says, waving them triumphantly and scrambling to his feet. He shushes Bill when he opens his mouth to protest. He clears his throat and does The British Guy. "Since I am not pulling my weight, I have decided to make the honorable sacrifice to traverse the cold and dark for your refreshments."

He holds out his palm for the rest of the money.

Stan slow claps, the sound echoing around the lot. "My hero," he deadpans, handing Richie some change.

Richie bows low to the ground. "Thank you."

He stands there, fidgeting awkwardly in place.

Mike laughs. "You have no idea where the refreshments stand is, do you, buddy?"

"Indeed, I do not," he says, still putting on the British affect.

Eddie rolls his eyes. "I do. Come on, Einstein, let's go." He crawls over Bill and Stan, much to their groans of protest and hops off the edge of the truck. He zips up his jacket and rubs his hands together to warm himself, looking expectantly back at Richie. "Well?"

The others look back and forth between them. Stan raises his eyebrows.

Instead of doing the expected and decent thing and following Eddie off the back of the truck, Richie climbs over the side—hearing a loud "Hey!" as he kicks Bill's head in the process. He jumps to the ground, definitely landing the wrong way on his ankle as he feels a jolt of pain.

"Fuck!" He buckles to his knees.

"Richie!" cries Eddie, at his side immediately—at the same time several of the others cry out in surprise. Stan jolts up from where he's sitting.

"What were you thinking?" demands Eddie, a reprimand hidden underneath his concern, but his eyes are wide, earnest.

"M'fine," he says through grit teeth. Although it stings, upon getting on his feet he realizes that he can still stand just fine, so it's not a total lie.

"You could've gotten seriously hurt, jackass!" He's grabbing Richie like he's searching for some sort of injury. "Don't scare me like—"

"Eddie, it's like three feet off the ground," says Richie with an amused grin, trying to pacify him and laugh it off, but with Eddie staring up at him like that—hand on his wrist, other hand brushing a speck of dirt from his face—he suddenly feels very warm.

"I—I know that," says Eddie, a bit defensively. "But I—"

"Richie!" says Ben. "Are you alright?"

Richie tears his eyes away from Eddie to give Ben a thumbs up and a strained smile. "Yep. Right as rain, Benny."

"Good to go?" asks Beverly, craning her neck to look at him from the opposite end of the truck. "Don't gotta call the ambulance or anything?"

"Yeah." Richie sighs. "Honestly guys." He jumps up and down. "See?" he says, even though the moment he lands he can totally tell he landed on his ankle wrong, but it's not a big deal. "'Tis but a scratch!' as they say."

"Who is 'they'?" asks Eddie.

"Monty Python?" says Richie. When Eddie just stares at him blankly, he says, "Oh my God, Eddie, do you live under a rock?"

"Shut up, Rich!" Eddie _finally_ lets go of him. "Just because I don't understand that obscure shit you're always—"

"Dude, it's not even obscure, lots of people know what Monty Python—"

"Oh, yeah? Like—"

"Guys!" says Stan over the bickering. "Before the movie starts, maybe?"

He doesn't sound mad so much as just… exasperated.

Richie gapes at Stan. Stan stares back, stone-faced. Bill glances between the three of them.

Finally, Stan relents. "I just—just meant…" stammers Stanley, shrinking in on himself, seemingly embarrassed to now be the center of attention. "Get the popcorn. Before the movie starts, yeah?"

Richie's eyes narrow, staring down Stan an uncomfortably long time before he shrugs. "Fine," he says with a nod, lips pressed together in a thin line and it's really obvious he's trying hard not to laugh. Stan, too, is barely containing himself, and there's an amused twinkle in his eye.

The other Losers just watch in bewildered confusion. Because ' _Fine'_? Really, that's it? That's all from Trashmouth Tozier? ' _Fine'_?

But whatever passes between the two of them, there's obviously no hard feelings.

Richie flips him off, a gesture which Stan returns but Richie doesn't see because he's already headed off in the other direction.

"Bring me back a lemonade!" calls Stan, probably out of pure antagonism more than anything.

"Ok, but just for that I'm gonna spit in it!" says Richie, not looking back.

"I'll make sure he doesn't!" calls Eddie before turning to follow Richie.

He quickly catches up with him. "It's this way," says Eddie quietly, nodding in the direction of a small, dimly lit building in the distance with barely flickering neon signs that would've been easy to miss. Richie nods in acknowledgment.

They walk in silence for a moment before Eddie speaks again.

"I… Are you sure you're alright, Richie?" he asks, chancing a glance at him from the corner of his eye. He doesn't miss the occasional winces—sporadic, but each time it's when Richie's left foot hits the ground.

"Dude, yeah," says Richie, pouting. He seems weirdly sullen. "Don't need you to go all Doctor K on me—as much as I appreciate the gesture." He tacks the last part on at the end as a reassurance, offering him a sweet smile that breaks through the moodiness.

"Is your ankle swollen?" He reaches out a hand. "At least let me take a look at it—"

"No!" snaps Richie almost immediately, and Eddie staggers back in surprise. At seeing the hurt in Eddie's face, he tries again. "I mean… No. I'm fine, Eds, I promise." Richie hugs his arms close to his chest.

Eddie blinks. "Alright. I'm... _sorry_ ," he says, and something about the way he says it sounds so _fragile_ that Richie's heart could break right there.

"Don't be."

Eddie doesn't respond.

It's obvious they're thinking of the same moment in time.

(" _Don't touch me! Don't you fucking touch me!"_ )

They're not gonna talk about it. They don't need to talk about it. At the same time, it's a memory they've both buried so deep, deep down in the handful of summers since then, it's just not something they feel the need to talk about at all. They just understand.

Again, silence. Which is weird for the two of them. Because they're Richie and Eddie. Who are they if they're not squabbling?

"So… What's so great about this Monty Python thing or whatever?" offers Eddie, trying again at conversation. Maybe this time, trying at something lighthearted instead.

"Huh? Oh." He's never really thought about it before. "I dunno. _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_ —that's the good one—has all these, like… funny observations about how batshit Arthurian legends and feudal Europe and all that shit are if you think about them for more than one second. Not to mention it's just clever as hell. The thing I just said, 'Tis but a flesh wound'? By that point, the other knight has already chopped off three of his limbs. So this dude is just hopping around on one leg, going on and on about how he's invincible."

He pictures the one-legged knight in his mind—trying hard not to laugh just thinking about it.

Eddie's nodding along like it's the most interesting thing he's ever heard, brow furrowed like he's trying to process everything Richie is saying. Which is funny because usually by this point he would've already interrupted.

But he hasn't, so Richie keeps going.

"Plus, Brits just have a weird sense of humor I guess. 'Cause they have to be all polite and respectable since they're all repressed, so the way they express themselves is just different, not like us."

"Hm…" Eddie looks like he's about to reach some sort of epiphany, but then he just shrugs. "Guess I'd have to see it to really understand."

"I'll show it to you some time."

Eddie nods. "Sure. I'd like that," which catches Richie off guard. He'd expected more protest. But that's not it. "I guess I just don't understand. So are Americans supposed to be, like, honest by comparison?"

"I think so," says Richie. "Or we're more…" He's searching for the right word or phrase. "Tell-it-like-it-is."

Eddie scowls, an adorable expression of cross befuddlement on his scrunched up face.

"That's stupid," he says out of nowhere, which surprises Richie even though it probably shouldn't. Eddie loves to be contrarian, especially when it comes to anything he says. So this shouldn't be out of the ordinary.

"What is?" says Richie, too curious as to what Eddie could possibly mean before he can even defend his point. "And it's not stupid, I told you, it'll make more sense once you—"

"No, not that," says Eddie. "Not the movie. That Americans are honest. That's what's stupid."

"Why?"

"'Cause they're _not_ ," says Eddie as though it should be obvious, but there's a strange bitter note to his tone. "It's not a country of Trashmouth Toziers."

Richie snorts.

Eddie eyes him suspiciously. "What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing," says Richie, but it's somehow a relief that Eddie doesn't seem to see the lack of sincerity in any of the shit Richie spouts. It's a relief, but maybe also a tragedy.

"You making fun of me, Rich?"

Richie just shakes his head, still chortling to himself.

"Don't laugh," he whines, punching Richie on the shoulder—ignoring Richie's "Hey!" of protest. "I always trust you to tell me what you really think, Rich. Even when I don't wanna hear it."

Richie swallows. "A terrible judgment call on your part, really."

He's still avoiding Eddie's eyes, but the frustration is apparent in his voice. "Oh, come on, dipshit! I'm tryna tell you something."

"Oh, yeah?" says Richie, following through on this impulse to challenge him.

But he dares to look over at Eddie, whose gaze is weirdly intense like he might say something of consequence.

He softens. "And… what's that?"

Eddie is the first to break, tearing his eyes away so that he can track the loose piece of gravel he kicks with the toe of his sneaker. "So... this Monty Python? Yay or nay?"

"That's a 'yay', Good Fellow," says Richie softly.

The British Guy again. Yeah. Perfect for when you're unable to address uncomfortable realities.

"Do British people say 'yay'?" asks Eddie.

"No idea."

They're right outside the run-down building. Richie holds the door open for him. "After you, chap."

Eddie nods in thanks. He frowns as he takes in the scenery: the flickering neon sign, the fluorescent lights—most of which have gone out, the stale popcorn just sitting in a giant glass box behind the counter, the out-of-order soda fountain. "It's so dark in here. Seems kinda hazardous, don't you think?"

"Oh, I think it adds to the ambiance," says Richie.

He has no idea how Eddie can tell that he's smiling from in front of him, but he says, "Yuck it up, jackass, I can barely see where I'm going, it'll be really funny when someone—" A loud squeak and sneaker makes contact with a puddle of water, and Eddie slips—but before he hits the ground, Richie shoots out his arms to catch him just in time.

Eddie's eyes go wide, as do Richie's. For a moment, silence. Eddie's chest is heaving like he's breathing hard.

Richie grins down at him. "Ha! Saved your life!"

They're literally so close that Richie can make out the freckles on his nose.

Eddie gazes up at him open-mouthed before he flushes pink and struggles out of Richie's grip—standing to his feet and straightening out the collar, then the hem of his jacket.

Richie waits for him to speak, smirking with amused triumph. Nothing.

"'Gee, thanks Richie, for not letting my head crack open like a raw egg against the pavement'," says Richie sarcastically.

"Thanks!" says Eddie brusquely, loudly, as if he wants that to be the end of it. His eyes are still the size of dinner plates.

"Relax, ok?" It doesn't have to be a big deal if they don't make it one. Or, well, Richie didn't _think_ it was a big deal.

"I am relaxed!" says Eddie, still too loud. A couple and their kid glance over at them.

"Like, actual relaxed, not your coked-up version of relaxed."

"I told you, I am relaxed," says Eddie, a little better this time.

Luckily, the people staring decide they're of no importance, and go back to their lives.

They wait together behind the long line of disgruntled patrons. Eddie's fidgeting around a bit where he stands and Richie shoots him a look, one eyebrow quirked. "You ok there, Eds?"

"I don't like it when you can smell the popcorn," he whines. "I'm starving, ok? I forgot that putting off going home meant I'd be skipping out on dinner." Eddie counts their change, squinting up at the menu on the wall. "How many buckets do you think we should get? Two? Three?"

"Fuck, I dunno. Seven of us, one for every two people...maybe three?"

Eddie nods. "Maybe two. Nobody ever finishes when we get three."

Eddie is observant like that. Richie likes that about him.

Eddie counts their change again. "Do you think if I threw in a rocket pop, the others would notice?"

"Sneaky! I like the way you think, Kaspbrak." Richie taps the side of his forehead.

"You won't say anything?"

"I'm no snitch. But isn't it kinda cold for that?"

"Fuck off. What are you, my mom?"

Richie opens his mouth.

"Do not!" Eddie cuts him off before he can even speak. "Do _not_ say you're basically my stepdad."

"What?" Richie pretends to look aghast, doing the clutching-of-the-pearls gesture. He feigns gagging. "Oh, ew, no way, Eds. I would never."

A sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"Your mother and I are not that serious."

Eddie opens his mouth to say something, hands raising and Richie can visibly see them vibrating with anger. Then—it's like he can see the gears turning in that little mind of his—something shifts as he changes his mind, and they slowly ball into little clenched fists. He closes his mouth again, lips a thin line as he lets out a quiet scream as he squats low to the ground.

Richie watches this all go down with a self-satisfied smirk.

"I have never... been angrier... than I am... right... _now_ ," says Eddie. He's still shaking, but when he stands up, his hand comes up to hide his mouth in a rather suspicious manner.

Richie claps him on the back. "Cheer up, Eds. We got a lot o' life ahead of us. There's still plenty of time for me to top that, kinda like how I—"

He grimaces. "Don't push it."

Luckily, he can't because they're next in line. Richie smiles sweetly at the lady behind the register before giving their order—which is maybe why a short laugh escapes Eddie before he can help himself, and he has to turn away to hide his face from her because he doesn't buy Richier Tozier on his best behavior for a second.

Eddie nudges Richie. "You should complain to her about the wet floor," says Eddie under his breath.

"You do it if you care so much!" says Richie crossly, counting out coins so that she doesn't have to give change and then handing over the money.

"It's a hazard!" Still under his breath. "There should be a 'wet floor' sign. That's a lawsuit waiting to happen!"

"If this place gets shut down, and it's your fault, what're we gonna do in our spare time?" Richie smiles at the lady one more time and thanks her before turning to look at Eddie again. "Go to the library? You expect me to read books voluntarily? I'm not Ben, I have my limits."

"This isn't about me!" says Eddie. "What if someone else gets hurt?"

"Here you go." The lady hands them two buckets of popcorn, a couple of empty cups, Eddie's rocket and... another popsicle in a bright yellow wrapper.

"I know, but she's just doing her job, Eds." Richie pats his shoulder.

Eddie's too busy staring at all the food. "Oh fuck, this is a lot of stuff," he says, and the lady behind the register scowls at his language, but he ignores her. He looks to Richie. "Do you think we can carry it all back?"

"We better. We'll totally feel the wrath of the others if we drop anything after spending their money." Richie holds out his hands to pick up the buckets, then stops. "Trays..." he mutters to himself. "We need trays. Excuse me?" he says to the lady before she turns to help the next person in line.

"What is it, dear?" A genuine smile from the woman as Richie explains the problem to her, asking for a tray for their cups, and an extra box for their popcorn.

How Richie can get away with jokes about fucking Eddie's mom, then win over the lady behind the register, Eddie has no idea. He's pretty sure it's times like these where he hates him most.

"Thanks, Joan," says Richie, taking the cardboard trays from her before finally turning around, and Eddie shakes his head because, _Are you kidding me, he learned her name, too?_

"I don't get you," says Eddie, eyeing him with curious intrigue as Richie hands him a bucket of popcorn and two cups to hold.

It's just bizarre to think that maybe Richie's growing up—that they're both growing up. He's, like… almost respectable now, it's _weird_. You don't forget the kind of person that tries to burp their A-B-Cs, even when they supposedly grow out of it. That's the kind of that image that's burned into Eddie's brain.

"What can I say, Eds?" says Richie, like somehow he knows what Eddie is thinking. He takes a handful of popcorn and shoves it into his mouth. Mouth full, he adds, "I contain multitudes."

Or at least, what Eddie is pretty sure is "I contain multitudes" because it sounds more like, "Ah co-fo mo-fi-foes".

"And yet you still refuse to chew with your mouth closed."

He grins through a mouthful of popcorn. "Take it or leave it, baby."

Eddie wrinkles his nose in disgust. "Mm."

Eddie heads over to the fountain machine to fill up their drinks, but when he's put on the last lid, he turns back to Richie only to see him overloading their popcorn with butter. He groans.

"What?" says Richie, like he can't possibly understand what he's done wrong this time.

"No, no extra butter!" says Eddie. "That stuff is terrible for you!"

"Come on, live a little, Kaspbrak!" His finger still hasn't moved from the button. Eddie's starting to feel antsy. "I thought you liked extra butter! Who even are you? Everyone likes extra butter."

"Are you kidding me, Rich? When have I ever said that I like extra butter?" he rattles off the words in a rush, doing that thing where he puts his hand up near his chin. "One time—I'll give you five dollars if you can name one time, any time, I have ever said that I like extra butter on my popcorn!"

Richie finally, _finally_ takes his finger off the button. "Ok, sorry, I didn't know it bugged you so much!" Now that he's thinking about it, he actually can't remember Eddie ever saying he liked extra butter. "You never complained about it before! We always share, if it bothers you how come you've never brought it up before now? You're the one who always grabs extra napkins."

Eddie pokes him in the chest. "That's because I know _you_ like extra butter on your popcorn, dipshit!"

Richie stares at him for a long moment. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. "I refuse to believe that. The day you let me have my way on anything is the day I die of shock. Look, if it bothers you so much, just eat from the one without butter."

"Oh. I mean…" Eddie's suddenly very interested in playing with the straw on Stan's drink. "Yeah, I guess—I guess I could do that."

"Eds?"

"I guess I just assumed you and I were gonna share, y'know?"

"But... you don't like buttered popcorn," says Richie. "And you're hungry, you said so yourself."

"I—I don't like when it leaks through the bucket," he says hastily.

It's not a lie. Last time they went to the movies, the butter seeped through the bag and got all over his brand new jacket. It was completely ruined, and his mother was furious.

"But…" Eddie grabs a whole stack of napkins from the dispenser. "We have napkins!"

Richie chuckles. "See, this is exactly why Joan doesn't like you. How many napkins you got there? Three, four... hundred?"

"Yeah, well, you're a messy eater," says Eddie.

Richie grabs the rocket pop that was sitting in the tray of drinks and unpeels the wrapper, handing it to Eddie. "You better eat that before we get back so that the others don't see it."

"Oh!" Eddie takes it, holding a tray of drinks in one hand while holding the rocket pop in the other. "Right."

How Richie manages the balancing act of holding two buckets of popcorn, unwrap his lemon pop, and push the door open for Eddie, he has no idea. But by now he's learned not to underestimate Richie. And somehow, he still managed to push the door open for Eddie—only for them to nearly bump into a couple making out right outside the building.

Richie raises his eyebrows, mouth too full of popsicle.

When they're far enough out of earshot, Richie takes the lemon pop out of his mouth. "Nice."

Eddie makes a face. "God, can't they swap spit somewhere else?"

"Dude, we're at a drive-in, what do you expect?"

"It's gross. At least have the decency to wait 'til you're in the car."

"'At least have the decency to wait 'till you're in the car'," says Richie, mimicking Eddie. Irritation aside, it's not a bad impression. "God, do you know how old you sound?"

Eddie snorts. "Yeah. Yeah that does sound lame, doesn't it?"

"Cranky because you're not getting any action, Kaspbrak?"

"Like you're one to talk. I'm not having this discussion with you."

Richie glances back and gags. "It's like he's trying to eat her face off."

"Don't stare!" He tries to elbow Riche, with only mild success considering his hands are full. "They'll notice us."

Richie ignores him. "God, they really are going at it… 'Mmmm, I love chapstick'," says in a dopey voice.

Eddie giggles. "You sound like a muppet." He responds in a high-pitched, raspy tone. "'It's cherry-flavored, your favorite'." He sucks on the end of his rocket pop.

"'You look so hot in double denim. You smell just like the nacho cheese and jalapenos we just ate. Is it just me or does your mouth burn, too?"

"'I'm so glad you brought me here. I've always wanted our first time to be in a van with a mattress in the back to the sound of 'party on, dudes!' and air guitar over the radio."

Richie bursts out laughing. "You can't hear air guitar, but I admire your improv skills, Kaspbrak."

"Thanks." Eddie takes the last bite of his rocket pop. He frowns at the empty stick before glancing Richie up and down—seemingly sizing him up. "C'mere." Despite his occupied hands, he beckons Richie closer with his finger.

Richie leans in, attentive. "What is it?"

"Closer." There's a mischievous glint in his eye.

He rolls his eyes, but listens, willing to humor his friend. But he knows Eddie well enough to tell when he's up to something.

Their eyes meet, and Eddie grins slyly before taking a bite of Richie's lemon pop.

"Hey!" Richie pulls away, but it's no use.

"What?" says Eddie, all doe-eyed like the picture of innocence, but Richie knows better than that. "I was curious!"

He licks his lips.

"It's a lemon pop!" says Richie incredulously, and he's praying that in the darkness Eddie can't see him blush.

"And I wanted a taste!"

Richie opens his mouth and scoffs. "I—Well—You… You had your own!"

"Well, I didn't want my own, I wanted yours."

Richie just gapes at him, amazed. "You totally played me!"

Eddie shrugs, mischievous glint in his eyes. He licks his top row of teeth as he glances at Richie's lemon pop again.

Richie shakes his head. "Oh, no. Just one bite and you're already salivating for seconds?"

"I told you, I was hungry."

"A popsicle is not food."

"You don't think I know that, dumbass?"

"Shouldn't you be more afraid of germs?"

"Please, if you were gonna give me anything, I'd have caught it by now. I'm not scared of you, Tozier. If anything, I think you have more reason to be afraid of me." His now free hand is on his hip—as if daring Richie to challenge him.

And honestly, Richie hates the way Eddie's looking at him. It makes him wonder if there's anything deeper to what he's saying—beyond the surface. Maybe he is afraid of Eddie. Or maybe he likes Eddie this way—unafraid. Or both.

A pause.

"Here." Richie offers the lemon pop to him.

Eddie doesn't take it. "No more fight left in you?"

He shakes his head. "Not this time."

"What, you're just gonna hand it to me?" says Eddie. "Where's the fun in that?"

He's still holding it out to him, even as it slowly melts, and little beads of former lemon pop drip to the ground.

"Dude, do you want it or not?" Whether he'd admit it aloud or not, Richie would rather let Eddie indulge himself. He'd take that any day over Eddie freaking out about old-people things like _cholesterol_.

Eddie scrutinizes him for a hard moment before he snatches it away from him. "Fine."

"Alright. But you better finish it before we get back to the truck," he warns.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," says Eddie with a dismissive hand-wave.

Richie watches Eddie eat for a moment before speaking again. "Satisfied?"

Eddie finishes up the last bite, licking the dripping melted residue off his fingers. "Hardly."

Eddie still has his fingers in his mouth when two girls their age pass them by. One of them makes eye contact with Richie and giggles, turning to her friend and whispering something in her ear.

Richie turns back to watch them walk away before turning back to Eddie. "I don't understand girls," he says, shaking his head.

"You understand Beverly," suggests Eddie, trying to be sympathetic.

"Yeah, but Bev is Bev, ya know?" says Richie, and even though he was the one to bring up the counterpoint, Eddie silently agrees. Bev is different. Bev is Bev. "Not, like, a _girl_ -girl."

"So... that's a _girl_ -girl?" asks Eddie.

"Huh?" asks Richie, as if he's already forgotten the interaction between the two girls. A flicker of recognition crosses his face, and he glances back at her. He wolf-whistles. "Oh, yeah."

"Hmph." Eddie pouts. "Well, the fact that she's into you is enough of a miracle. It's ok, give her time to get to know you—like me. That'll turn her off for sure."

"Fuck you, dude!" says Richie through a laugh, grabbing a handful of popcorn and throwing it at Eddie. "Why you so hung up on her, anyway?"

Eddie dodges most of the popcorn, a kernel or two landing in his hair as the rest scatters on the asphalt. "You're the one checking her out!" he says, voice rising.

Richie eyes him curiously. "Damn, Eds," he says. "If you like her so much, you can have her."

"I—I don't—Rich, you can't just—" stammers Eddie. "That's beside the point, Rich. Ya know, you can't just talk about girls like they're interchangeable."

A giggle in the distance, and a squeal, and they both turn their heads to see the same girls are now accompanied by two boys holding them arm-in-arm—presumably their actual dates.

"Ah, well," says Richie with a shrug, but he doesn't sound all that disappointed. "Nothing like a drive-in to hammer in your own perpetual solitude."

Eddie snorts. "Look who's cranky now."

"Maybe." Richie sighs, staring wistfully into the distance. They pass by a convertible with the top down. "The car-envy is worse than the solitude. God, it'd be fricking cool to have my own car."

"Why?" Eddie shoots him a skeptical look. "To bring dates to the movies? Oh no, wait, I know. So you can make out under the flickering neon lights of the popcorn stand?" It's said in jest, but there's something bitter about his tone.

"Moreso to get the hell out of Derry." Richie hesitates. "But sure. That, too."

Eddie makes a face, wrinkling his nose. "Yuck."

"Hey! Don't make that face," says Richie, and Eddie just sticks out his tongue. Richie snorts. "Ok, which part, then? The leaving or the making out?"

"The second one."

"Hm." He pretends to consider it. "I can see that. It must have been hard enough to hear me break the news that I'm dating your—"

"Cheap shot," says Eddie curtly, cutting him off. "Try again with something better. If you must know, the 'yuck' was because I _so_ did not need that visual."

"Well, you might wanna get used to it," says Richie. "Your mom and I have done it in every room, including yours."

Eddie nudges him on the shoulder, the best he can manage with their hands full. "You're disgusting."

"Oh, indisputably."

"Besides…" says Eddie, biting back a smile. "My mom hates going to the movies."

A dubious expression, a raised eyebrow. "You're really humoring this hypothetical reality where I'm screwing your mom?"

"I'm 'yes, and'-ing, jackass," snaps Eddie. "You think you're the only person allowed to be funny around here? And I'm just saying! She insists we can just watch them at home. God forbid I leave the house."

"I think we'd be a little too distracted to watch anything if you know what I—"

"Yes! I know what you mean."

A pause. That's not the only thing on his mind. Eddie isn't sure if he should say it. But he does.

"But the thought of you up and leaving isn't fun either."

"I mean, I'd probably say goodbye," says Richie.

"Hey!" says Eddie, but he wants to protest even further because the way he said it so flippantly honestly makes his stomach churn.

"I'm kidding!" says Richie. He grins, and Eddie just scowls in return. It's a mean-spirited frame of mind, but maybe a part of him doesn't mind seeing Eddie so worked up at the idea. "I said probably, didn't I?" Eddie opens his mouth, and Richie reassures him immediately. " _Eddie_. I would, ok? I would. I mean, Of course, I would, Eds. You—The Losers, deserve at least that much. I just—You didn't think I was gonna stay here, did you?"

Eddie's gaze averts to the ground. "No…" he says, suddenly morose. "No, I guess not." Back to Richie. "Have you told your parents?"

"Sorta, but I don't think they take me seriously. My dad just says—" He pushes up his glasses and wags his finger, doing a spot-on imitation of Wentworth Tozier, "'Well, if you're dead set, then you better do it before ya meet someone!'"

Eddie giggles. Richie's getting pretty good at this. With the impression and the glasses, he's the spitting image of his father.

Richie shrugs, himself again. "What the fuck does that even mean?"

"Hm…" Eddie's brow furrows when he thinks, an expression that Richie thinks is impossibly cute. "Like… before you settle down, I guess. But you've never seemed like the kind of person to settle down."

"Nobody in high school seems like the kind of person who settles down, Eds," says Richie. "And then they all do." Which he figures will be the inevitable for him. Even though he can't for the life of him picture it.

Except, maybe with—

"Yeah… But I can't picture you settling down with anyone!" says Eddie matter-of-factly.

There's something brutal about his special brand of sincere honesty. Something accidental that claws at Richie's chest—and, of course, Eddie would never hurt him on purpose, but the fact that Eddie knows him so well, and he seems to mean it? That has to be some sort of sign.

He's destined to be alone.

Richie feels held under a magnifying glass from the way Eddie is looking at him.

"Anyone, huh?"

"Anyone!" Eddie nods. "Except, maybe—" Eyes wide, like he's just made a terrible mistake, his mouth snaps shut.

"Eds?" asks Richie, now achingly curious as to how _exactly_ he was planning to finish that sentence.

Eddie just shakes his head.

" _Eddie_?" says Richie again, much more forcefully. Not a question.

"I didn't say anything," says Eddie.

"But you were about to." Again. Not a question, a statement.

"No, I wasn't!" snaps Eddie, only he's not mad, not really. If anything, his eyes are glassy like he's about to cry, and they seem to be pleading Richie not to press any further.

"I didn't say anything!" says Eddie again, practically hollering. "I just said I couldn't picture you settling down, and that was it!"

"Ok!" says Richie, just as loud, face suddenly very warm. "Ok, Eds," he adds, much softer this time, back to normal volume. "I believe you."

As he says it, he can see the tension in Eddie's shoulders relax.

"Christ, Eds. That's a real called shot for my future, isn't it, though?"

"I didn't mean it like that," mumbles Eddie. "I just meant that—argh!" He lets out a strangled noise of frustration. When he's bothered by something, his eyebrows knit together in a way that gives him a tiny crinkle above his nose. "I mean—Y'know, you're… you're..."

He can tell Eddie is struggling for words. Which is odd because Eddie doesn't usually struggle for words. Usually, it's the opposite. Usually, Eddie has too many words, and he fires them all off in rapid succession, often accompanied by an annoyed or scathing tone.

"Oh, boy—" says Richie with a deep breath, bracing himself for the inevitable roast.

"... Unorthodox," finishes Eddie lamely.

A pause. Richie and Eddie stare at each other.

Eventually, Richie opens his mouth. "That was a lot closer to complimentary than I expected," he blurts out.

Eddie looks pensive. "I know, I surprised myself with that one."

(Because if Richie keeps pressing, then Eddie's not sure if he'll be able to hold it together. Because if Richie knows he was about to say "Except, maybe me," with such frightening ease that he didn't even stop to think before the words were out of his mouth… If Richie knows, and he doesn't feel the same way? Then everything is ruined.)

But except, maybe... who? Unbeknownst to Eddie, Richie can't bring himself to ask.

"Besides, if you were regular, you wouldn't be one of us—y'know, a Loser. If you were regular, you'd be like all the kids who make fun of my asthma. We probably wouldn't even be friends."

Richie is about to respond when they hear Beverly's voice in the distance.

"Richie? Eddie? Oh, my God, is that you? Finally!"

"Yeah, Bev, it's us," says Richie, not taking his eyes off Eddie.

"Well, speak of the devil," she says as they approach. Once they're close enough to the truck to get a good look at each other, she smirks. "And the devil shall appear."

She looks to Eddie and amends her statement. "Devils."

"Really? You guys were talking about us?" says Eddie, raising his eyebrows as he holds out a tray of drinks for someone to grab. Privately, he's hoping that he doesn't sound too antsy about the prospect of the other Losers talking about just the two of them.

Ben takes the tray from Eddie. "Just worried if you were ok is all!"

" _And_ wondering what the hell was taking you so long," adds Mike.

"Speculating, more like," snickers Stan.

Which makes both Eddie and Richie very nervous, but then Bev says, "Yeah, we were beginning to think you guys split the money and skipped out on us," with a cheeky grin—and both of them can exhale in relief.

Richie mock gasps, setting the buckets of popcorn down on the bed of the truck and clutching at his chest. "What? Beverly, I am shocked. I am _flabbergasted_. How could you think so little of me?"

For once, Eddie is grateful that Richie loves to make a big show of things. It's always a good distraction.

"Can you blame her?" asks Stan.

" _Here_ ," says Richie with a grunt as he hoists himself up onto the truck. He digs in his pocket, holding out the change in his hand. "For you disbelievers." He's about to hand it back—he can even see hands leaving jacket pockets to hold them out expectantly—when he changes his mind. "Actually, no," he says, relishing the uncommon level of power he holds in this situation.

The other Losers wait while he takes his time examining each of them one by one as he makes his decision.

He walks over to Ben and offers the wad to him. "For _Ben_ ," he says pointedly. He glances back at the others with a smug grin. "For caring about our well-being, _and_ … being the only person who is nice to me around here."

Richie holds the money out to him, leaning right up close to his face and grinning.

"Only _other_ person, anyway. Besides my little errand buddy," amends Richie, glancing at Eddie out of the corner of his eye.

Ben exhales through his nose—making a noise that is clearly a laugh—even as he tries to keep a straight face. He takes the change gingerly from Richie like he's handling glass or something else equally as fragile. As he does it, he glances cautiously at the other Losers as if worried he might offend them by accepting Richie's offer.

Richie pats Ben's cheek.

"I hereby appoint Ben keeper of the change," announces Richie, putting a hand on Ben's shoulder. "Any complaints about distribution can now be taken up with him."

"Richie!" says Beverly. "Ben, don't let him shove responsibility off onto you like that. He's the one that should've kept track!"

"No, it's ok, I don't mind," says Ben.

"Richie, this only calls more attention to the fact that you and Eddie d-d-didn't—didn't p-pay for anything," says Bill with a chuckle.

"Fair enough, Big Bill. Fair enough."

"Rich, are you gonna help me up or what?" asks Eddie, who is still standing beside the truck and had been waiting patiently until now for Richie to look back at him and realize that he needs help. Well, maybe not _needs_ the help, at least not crucially. But he definitely wants it.

"Sure thing, Eds!" chirps Richie, turning around to help him at once.

"And don't pull that shit you do," says Eddie, jumping up and leaning forward so that his weight falls onto his hands. "Where you pretend you're gonna drop me. You know I hate that."

"Wouldn't dream of it," says Richie, already taking Eddie's hand and helping him to his feet. "Can't do the same bit twice, that would make me a hack."

"Says the guy whose 'your mom' jokes make him sound like a broken record," grumbles Eddie, but Richie's grip on his hand is tight. So Eddie trusts him.

Behind them, Ben is carding through the handful of bills left, then the coins, mouth moving ever so slightly like he's trying to silently count to himself. He then looks up and does a mental count of their refreshments as well. He frowns, brow furrowed like he's perplexed—like he's trying to solve a puzzle—then looks up at Richie and Eddie, opening his mouth to say something. When they do make eye contact with them, Ben instead just pauses and shakes his head like he's changed his mind.

Richie and Eddie share a look, before turning to look back to Ben with mystified expressions.

"Ben?" says Eddie.

He just smiles at them like nothing is wrong.

Eddie sits down, grabbing a bucket of popcorn and scooting over to make room for Richie, who plops down next to him.

"Oh, no, don't," drolls Stan, who is seated at the opposite end of the vehicle. "I couldn't possibly take it if I had to miss out on all your insightful commentary, Rich."

"See?" says Richie. "I'm sparing you. I can be mindful from time to time."

"Thank you," says Stan, less sarcastic this time, maybe even fond and appreciative. It's him and Richie. They just get each other. "'Cause as much as I enjoy your Keanu Reeves, I'd rather watch the real thing."

"'What, seriously, dude? _Not_ excellent'," says Richie, doing his best Ted Logan as he air-guitars.

Stan laughs and shakes his head… and after a moment, he air-guitars back.

An unexpected breeze makes him stop. He hugs himself and shivers.

Mike sits up. "Oh, are you cold?" he asks.

"I'll be ok," says Stan, but his teeth are chattering. "I just forgot my jacket like an idiot."

"You can borrow mine. I mean, it's July after all, how were you supposed to anticipate it'd be this cold?"

He's already shrugging his jacket off when Stan puts his hands up in refusal. "Mike, don't be ridiculous! You'll be freezing!"

"No, I'm good, cross my heart! I don't get cold easily."

Stan huffs. "Hmph. No, you know what? How about we just—C'mere." Stan curls up under Mike's arm, making himself comfortable. "How 'bout this? Better already." He tilts his head to look up at Mike, shooting him a toothy grin. "See? No more chattering. Honest."

Mike chuckles. "Alright, call it a compromise."

"Well, I hope you have room for a third in there!" says Richie loudly, already sitting up, but Eddie grabs him by the sweater and yanks him back into his seat.

Stan shoots Richie a cross look—which Eddie takes to be odd because Stan has an unusually high threshold for Richie's antics, despite his eyerolls.

Stan buries himself further into Mike's chest as if trying to make himself comfortable again. As if trying to find that point, that place where he feels content. He's not quite there yet, but given a few seconds, he eases up a little, happy once again.

For a second, as Eddie watches the two of them, something inside him puts it together, and it clicks.

"I have two arms," says Mike, holding them out expectantly for Richie. "The more the merrier, I say."

"The movie is about to start!" hisses Eddie, the Metro Goldwyn Mayer lion roaring in the background as if right on cue.

"Rich, if you're g-g-gonna—gonna move, better do it now or f-forever hold your peace," says Bill. "It's cramped enough as it is w-w-without you stomping around halfway through the movie 'cause you ch—changed your mind."

Richie shakes his head. "That's ok, I'm good here. Eddie loves my Ted 'Theodore' Logan, don'tcha Eddie?" says Richie.

Eddie shushes him and glares. "What did I just say?"

He does like Richie's Keanu Reeves impression, but he's still peeved. Even though he would rather chew glass than admit the real reason he's annoyed—Richie trying to leave him and sit next to Mike.

"Don'tcha, Eddie?" asks Richie again, leaning in close. "Aw, come on, Eds, admit it, you think my Keanu Reeves is 'non-non- _non_ -'—"

Richie grabs him and puts him in a headlock, mussing up his hair.

"Richie, the movie— _Richie_!" says Eddie, trying to quiet Richie and escape his grasp but it's no use. He can't stay mad at Richie forever. "Dude, come on! You need to—It's about to—" he says, or at the very least tries to say while he's shrieking with laughter.

He's still going. "—non-non-non-non-non-non—"

Eddie finally manages to pry himself out from under Richie's arm. "Richie, I swear—"

"—non-non- _non_ -heinous!"

Richie shoots out a hand again, probably to put Eddie in another headlock, but Eddie catches it just in time, and with his other hand, he puts a finger to Richie's mouth to shush him.

"The movie is about to start," he says one more time, amused twinkle in his eye, index finger still placed over Richie's mouth.

For once, Richie listens and shuts up. The corner of Eddie's mouth quirks into the smallest of satisfied smiles—pleased with his win.

For just that moment, they forget to be afraid.

Of course, the realization that the others just watched that entire thing go down brings them both back to their senses. Eyes wide, Richie pries himself out of Eddie's grip as they hastily regain their composure and turn their eyes and bodies to face the screen.

"'San Dimas, California. 2691 A.D.'," reads Richie much too loud as he stares intently at the screen as if trying and failing to play it cool.

From under Mike's arm, Stan shoots him another irritated look. "Are you really going to talk the entire time?"

Eddie's laugh is strained. "Do you even have to ask?" he asks Stan, beating Richie to the answer as he tries to go back to their antagonistic rapport.

Stan sighs.

Richie ignores them both. "Wonder what San Dimas is actually like," he says, leaning back and sitting cross-legged, not caring about the collateral as he knocks right into Eddie.

Eddie doesn't move even when Richie bumps into him, but he hugs his knees, drawing in on himself. "Well, I doubt everyone's walking around in head-to-toe neon," says Eddie, at least trying to make it seem like he's engaging with what is happening on screen—instead of thinking about how his and Richie's knees are practically touching.

"Eh. It's a different kind of look, but I could get used to it," says Richie. He doesn't seem to notice their close proximity.

Eddie eyes Richie curiously. "You wanna go to California, Rich?"

"Rather be anywhere but here, to be fuckin' honest," he says, and Eddie tries not to dwell on how "anywhere but Derry" also means away from him. Richie's contempt for Derry leaves him cross, as usual, but his expression softens almost at once, and Eddie can sense a joke coming on. "But California doesn't sound too bad. Better than _Florida_ , anyway," he says pointedly, staring at Mike.

"Hey!" says Mike, sitting up just enough to disrupt Stan, who _hmphs_ in irritation. "What's wrong with Florida?"

"Florida has crocodiles."

"California has earthquakes," counters Stan, coming to Mike's defense.

"Well, Maine has people-eating demon clowns, so either state sounds like a step in the right direction," says Richie.

A hush falls over the other Losers at the mention of It.

"Alright…" says Bill with a _let's-try-take-our-mind-off-things_ laugh, of course, the only one brave enough to break the tension. "S-S-So in The Sunshine S-State's corner we got Mike, and for the Golden State we got Richie, anyone got—gotta case for Maine?"

"Oh, that's easy," says Ben of all people, and with the swiftness of his answer, the others swing their heads to look at him in surprise. "I'll bat for Maine." He counts them off on his fingers. "In fact, best to worst: Maine, Florida, California."

Richie scoffs in indignation.

"Uh-huh… " says Stan, sitting up from his cozy spot under Mike's arm with newfound intrigue. "Make your case."

"Well," says Ben. "You gotta weigh the pros and cons. See, California has Disneyland, but it also has earthquakes and smog."

Mike nods sagely.

"Florida has crocodiles, but it also has Disney _World_ ," he continues.

Richie tuts, shaking his head as he clicks his tongue in disapproval. "You suckers are too swayed by Walt and that Michael Mou—" he begins, but Beverly reaches over to flick his forehead.

"Ow! What the hell, Bev!" Richie rubs his forehead.

"Let him finish!" she scolds.

"And Maine," says Ben, "Well, Maine has Derry, lobsters, pine trees, the worst weather in the world and… er, _clowns_ … But it also has, well… you guys."

For a moment, no one speaks.

"Aw, Ben," says Beverly, hand over her heart as she sounds genuinely touched. "Well, when you put it that way..." She puts an arm around him, hugging him and kissing his cheek, and Ben's cheeks turn bright red.

Richie "awwws" along to this display of affection, but when she kisses Ben's cheek, he fake gags, and coughs in a way that sounds suspiciously like "get a room".

"Shut up, Trashmouth!" says Beverly, arms still around Ben's waist as she cuddles him from behind, her head resting on his shoulder. "Sorry Ben, Richie's just jealous 'cause he wants a kiss, too."

Richie flips her the bird.

"For what it's worth," says Mike. "We love you, too, Ben. And I think we can all agree that we're really glad to know you and that you're here with us."

Beverly gives Ben another loving squeeze. "Love ya, New Kid," she murmurs, and the fact that she looks so goddamn content having this boy in her arms makes it seem like she was always meant to be there.

The look on Ben's face is so familiar, it makes Richie's stomach twist in knots.

Been there, buddy. Been there for sure _._

Luckily, he can't stare to the point of it getting weird because Eddie jumps in and ruins their moment.

"Hang on, are we really not gonna address the Florida-being-above-California thing?" says Eddie, talking at his usual breakneck speed. And thank God, because it was getting entirely too sickly sincere in here for Richie's tastes. "I mean, crocodiles over earthquakes, are you crazy?"

Beverly bursts out laughing right next to Ben's ear, making him jump. "Honestly Eddie! That's what you took away from that whole thing?" she asks, which Eddie thinks is a bit unfair.

But he can't admit out loud that he just wanted to distract himself from Ben's lovesick puppy face, or the thought of Beverly kissing Richie. So he keeps his mouth shut.

"Look, we can all agree that Ben is right! So let's not think too hard about it—mph!" says Mike, but Stan elbows him in the ribs before he can finish—not hard, but with just enough force for Mike to get the point.

"No, no, I wanna hear this," says Stan.

"Yeah," says Ben. "Well. Think about it this way. Earthquakes happen in California all the time. But what is my actual likelihood of running into a crocodile?"

"Apparently, if you live in Florida, pretty fuckin likely," says Richie. "That's swampland, that is."

"Yeah, but they prepare for earthquakes in California," says Eddie. "It's like second nature for them. Do you have any idea how strong a crocodile's jaw is?"

"Do _you_?" asks Richie.

Eddie glares at Richie. "They literally clamp down on you and don't let go. A crocodile will drag you into the water and hold you under until you drown! That's how they get you! Their jaws are like iron, Rich."

"Oh, Iron Jaw, new name for a band—called it!" says Richie, reaching all the way over to get a high five from Stan. Stan grabs him by the wrist and puts his hand down.

"Eddie, I think you're thinking of alligators," says Ben.

Mike rolls his eyes. "You know what? Crocodiles or alligators, I'll take my chances."

"Whatever," says Richie. "Catch me sunbathing in Malibu while you get eaten by the crocodile from the black lagoon.”

" _Both_ ," corrects Stan softly, as if more to himself than anyone else. "For fuck's sake. Florida is known for _both_. The Everglades is the only place crocodiles and alligators co-exist." Mike bites his lip, fighting back laughter.

"Richie Tozier, are you trying to tell us that you wanna go Hollywood?" asks Bev.

Richie winks at her. "Get your autographs in while you can. Hold onto your yearbooks. Those'll be worth a lot someday."

Eddie snorts.

"Oh, _that_ of all things gets a laugh?" says Richie. "What's so funny? You don't think I can make it?"

"I dunno, stop making 'your mom' jokes and ask me then," says Eddie, but his tone is still light-hearted. He's only teasing. He's never doubted Richie's potential. If he asked again, he'd probably tell Richie so, but he isn't given the chance.

Bill chuckles. "Eddie, have some mercy. That's asking t-t-too—way too much of the man."

Eddie's hand snaps up to cover his mouth, clearly stifling a laugh.

Seeing Eddie's reaction, Richie turns to Bill, indignant. "You don't think I can do it, Bill?"

"No, but I'd love t-t-to—to see you t-try," says Bill. "No jabs at Eddie's mom for a whole 24 hours."

"You're on!" says Richie. They shake on it. "Piece of cake!"

"Please, I bet he can't even last the rest of the night," says Stan.

"'Last the night', you say?" asks Beverly with a snicker, one eyebrow raised. She elbows Ben as if to say, _get it?_ Ben allows for a tiny giggle to slip.

Richie shakes his head, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

"You ok, Rich?" asks Stan.

"M'fine," says Richie, with a forced, tight-lipped smile.

"Something weighing on you?" asks Stan, and Richie grits his teeth because Stan can't fool him. He can tell when his friend is feigning concern. "We're here for you, you don't have to carry the load all by yourself."

Richie runs his fingers through his hair, hands shaking as they ball up into fists.

"Look at him, he's sweating!" Mike chuckles. "God, you're so screwed."

Richie scowls, taking a deep breath. "Ok, now you're just doing it on purpose."

"A bet's a bet, Rich," says Bill. He claps him on the shoulder, doing his best to keep his expression solemn. "It's gonna be a hard and long night, but I believe in you."

He glares at Bill. "I hate you all."

"You guys, leave him alone," says Ben sternly. He turns to Richie, offering a comforting smile. "It's ok, Richie, don't mind them. They're just being jerks. I know you're more mature than that."

A sigh of relief, and a nod of solidarity. "Thank you, Ben."

A pause, and Ben's wide-eyed, sincere smile finally cracks.

"... You know they're just trying to get a _rise_ out of you."

Eddie screams, shaking so hard with laughter that he hits his head on the back window and sets off the car alarm.

"Eddie!" says Richie, jolting upright amidst the distracted laughter of the others.

Mike leaps up. "Fuck!" he cries.

He hurries a rushed apology to Stan before hopping out the bed of the truck so that he can unlock the car on the driver's side and shut off the alarm.

"Sorry, sorry!" he says to the countless people in nearby cars who have craned their necks to see what idiot car just pulled that piece of shit move. The alarm finally cuts out, and he can breathe a sigh of relief.

A couple of people voice their strongly-worded displeasure, and Richie flips them off. "Hey, right back at ya, assholes!"

Mike climbs back into the truck and puts his face in his hands. His shoulders are shaking.

"Sorry, Mike!" says Eddie, at his side in an instant. "Dude, I'm really sorry! I didn't mean to!"

When Mike finally looks up, he's grinning ear to ear. "God! Are you kidding?" He can barely talk, he's so overcome with silent laughter. "We're not even ten minutes in! We're still on the opening scene!"

"You don't think we're gonna get in trouble?" asks Eddie, wringing his hands.

"Well, if we do get kicked out, then you deserve some kind of award," says Mike. "We've never been thrown out of a place so fast, it usually has to take at least two of Richie's voices to get to that point, so that has got to be a new record." He wipes tears from his eyes.

The others laugh.

Eddie is beet red. "It's not funny!"

"Relax," says Bill, but he's chuckling, too. "Nobody is getting kicked out."

"How can you know that?" demands Eddie. "God, I'm gonna be in so much trouble." He's gasping, so he unzips his fanny pack and fumbles around for his aspirator, taking a puff.

"Look, Eddie, we're sorry f-f-for laughing. But I'm sure it happens more often than you think! And if we do get kicked out, it's not the end of the world, right?"

Eddie nods warily. "Right…" he says slowly, taking deep breaths. "Guess not."

He sinks back down in the spot next to Richie.

Richie grins. "Hey, Eds. You know what this means? If we do get banned from this place, for once I can honestly say that I am at zero fault!"

Eddie moans, putting his head in his knees.

"Hey, man. It's ok." Richie reaches out a hand, but it hovers just above Eddie's shoulder as if afraid to come into contact. "You got spooked, it happens. It was an accident! That wasn't even your fault if you think about it. Everyone else was goofing off, too. So really, we're all in this together. But it's gonna be fine, promise."

"Thanks, Rich," Eddie mumbles, sitting up again, and Richie quickly puts down his hand.

"Welcome to teenage rebellion! It's not all that it's cracked up to be."

Eddie doesn't answer, instead, he just rubs the back of his head.

"Are you ok?" asks Richie.

"Yeah," he says, wincing.

"Who knew drive-ins had the potential to be so hazardous."

"Fuck," says Eddie under his breath, hissing quietly as he touches the spot on the back of his head again. "My mom can't know about this. Am I bleeding?"

Richie reaches out a hand but hesitates. "I don't wanna—"

"Just check for me, alright! says Eddie. "Richie." His eyes are glistening. "Don't—Don't tell my mom about this."

"C'mon Eds, you know me. I wouldn't do that." Richie tries to be gentle, but Eddie still winces. "Sorry. I didn't mean—I'm trying to—"

"It's ok."

"I, uh—I don't see anything. You should be ok."

Eddie breathes a sigh of relief.

"Yeah. You're good. Besides," says Richie, corner of his mouth twisting in a small smile. "You don't have anything to worry about. Your mom and I don't talk about you during our pillow-talk. That would just be weird."

Eddie snorts. "Good to know. I—Thanks, Rich."

Richie nods. "No problem, Eds."

They go back to watching the movie. At least, they try to watch it. Reaching for the popcorn, Richie's hand brushes up against Eddie's.

Richie's eyes go wide. "Here." He shoves the bucket over to Eddie. "I'm not hungry."

"O-ok…"

Again, silence. After a few minutes, Eddie speaks. "Why are you afraid to touch me?"

"What? Why would you say that?"

"I see that way you flinch away. I mean, it's not always, but it's often enough. Like just now. I'm not an idiot, Richie. The way you are with the others, you're not like that with me. I—I dunno if you're just trying to be nice, but I swear I'm not as bad as I used to be. We've kinda been through a lot. Almost—Almost d—well, it puts things in perspective."

Richie swallows, and he can feel the lump in his throat. "Oh, I mean. I know. I just wasn't sure… if you were ok with it."

 _Fuck_.

He knows. Eddie knows everything. Eddie's too smart to not have figured it out by now. Eddie's figured it out by now, and he hates him.

"What are you talking about?" says Eddie. He hugs his knees. "I know I'm not like the others—except Stan I guess—with all the touchy-feely stuff but really? You're like… the only person I'm really… _comfortable_ with. When it comes to stuff like that."

"Again, another bad call on your part. That's twice now."

"Oh, fuck off. Don't even joke about that."

"Ok," says Richie. "I won't."

"I'm just saying, I've spent too much time relying on other people telling me what's good for me." His gaze is very intent on the carton of popcorn, avoiding looking directly at Richie as he says, "So when I say that I trust you, that... means something."

"I know it means something."

Eyes meeting Richie's again, he says, "So then why are you so hell-bent on leaving? You'll be gone, and I'll still be here in back asswards Derry. And you'll forget me."

"I'd never forget you, Eds."

"Promise?"

Richie nods. "Promise."

—

If asked, Eddie couldn't exactly tell anyone what the movie _Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey_ was about after watching it. Something about two teenage boys at a drive-in, and holding hands in the dark, and one boy wanting to rest his head on the other boy's shoulder but hesitated for fear of the other boy pulling back—only when he finally plucks up the courage, they remain that way, together all throughout the night.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @zukkacore on tumblr lol


End file.
